


(try a little) nothing is forever

by ToAStranger



Series: There's Gotta Be Something Better (than in the middle) [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Pre-Slash, attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 21:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is always cold. </p><p>- - - </p><p>Another old prompt fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(try a little) nothing is forever

**Author's Note:**

> Here's another oldie. 
> 
> \- - - 
> 
> Prompt: Can you write more of the fic where Stiles leaves and Peter finds him and convinces him to leave with him. It is a very good piece of writing. Please?

Some days Stiles wakes and doesn’t know where he’s at.  It’s almost a comfort, being completely lost, and on those days he breathes slower, easier, and he stretches out languid between soft sheets.  His heart beats steady; sometimes he’s tempted to touch himself in this lax state but he never gives into the urge.  It’s a familiar desire he isn’t quite used to anymore.

Desire isn’t something he’s used to anymore.

Most days he’s cold.  He bundles up even in warmer cities, always in a sweatshirt at the very least.  He chews on the string of his hoody, fingers shaking slightly, cold to the core as he watches places and people pass by through the passenger side window. Peter even keeps the seat warmer going for him.

They travel listlessly.  Never stay in one place too long, and Stiles knows it’s for his own sake—not because people are still on his tail, but because Stiles is restless.  Restless in a way that leaves him quivering when he wakes up in the same bed too many times.  Peter keeps them on the road; Stiles is grateful.

He likes to be lost.

They end up in Montana at one point, and Stiles takes off into the woods the second he gets a chance.  He’s not running from Peter, but he’s running from something, and he sleeps in a clearing under the stars and thinks he could die right there with nothing but night in his bones.  Peter finds him before dawn and doesn’t say a word.

He guides him back, and Stiles’ teeth begin to chatter as they draw closer and closer to landmarks he starts to recognize.  Peter bundles him up, puts him in the car, and gives him two big white pills.  When Stiles comes to somewhere far from where they’d been, nothing familiar in sight, Stiles feels his breath come easier.

His bones are rattling under his skin.  He’s surprised he hasn’t fallen to pieces.  Sometimes he wakes screaming and freezing, remembering the heat of blood on his hands.  He pukes his guts out, bent over a toilet with Peter’s hand at his back; when he’s done, Peter packs them up and drives until Stiles can close his eyes again.

The heat starts a few months in.  Stiles is sitting across from Peter at a hole in the wall diner, curled into the booth, a cup of coffee steaming between his palms when Peter nudges at his foot.  There’s a faint shock up his leg, like static, and his coffee spills over his hands as he jerks.  Hissing, he sets it down and palms his fingers dry over the jean of his pant leg.

“Are you going to eat anything this time?” Peter asks, eyes on the menu.

Stiles shudders.  “Not hungry.” His stomach growls.

Peter gives him a dry look.

He ends up getting more food than he can manage.  Peter mocks him light-heartedly when he groans.  Stiles is shivering by the time they get back to their hotel, neon lights flashing, and Peter keeps his comments to himself once the door shuts behind them up until Stiles is lulling off on the bed.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Peter says, sitting across from him.  “You can’t keep letting the guilt eat at you like this.”

“What do you suggest?” Stiles asks, head tipping, sprawled out like a starfish over the top of the comforter. 

Peter cants his head.  “I’ll show you how.  Will you let me?”

His eyes close, and he sighs.  “Yes.”

Peter starts touching him more often.  Not just the accidental brush of their fingers over the radio dial, not just the soothing circles at his back when he ends up dry heaving on the side of the road or into a toilet; it’s different.  They’re lingering and purposeful—the hand at the back of his neck as they watch TV in a hotel room, the fingers drumming over his knee as they coast along the highway—and Stiles’ chest feels heavy. 

Sparks flare under his skin until he feels like he’s glowing.  There’s static in his ears.  He feels content and it’s terrifying.

On a beach in Maine, the smell of salt in his nose and the slow crash of waves waking up along the shore filling his ears, Stiles finds that the cold that usually encompasses him is not there.  His bones thrum, and there is a flame in his chest, and he  _hates_  for a moment.  He doesn’t strip before he heads out into the heavy crest.

When Peter drags him back out, his lips are blue.  There is sand clinging to his skin, salt in his hair, and Peter slaps him.  They end up sprawled over the beach, Peter’s body heavy over Stiles’, fingers curled into Stiles’ shirt collar.  Peter shakes him.  He curses him.  Stiles laughs until he cries.

He sobs, and Peter lets him cling to his wrists.  His skin is cold, but his heart beat is strong and heavy, fire churning in his core like a revelation.  His breath hiccups over his lips, and Peter rests their foreheads together.  They don’t speak.

They don’t have to.

Stiles stares out the window of the motel room at the lazy roll of fog, towel draped over his shoulders, hair matted down, clothes scratchy against his skin.  He still smells like ocean, and he gazes longingly at where the mist is consuming the sea, wishing Peter had taken five minutes longer booking the new room.  Maybe he’d have been lucky enough to get tangled in the kelp, twined out too deep for Peter to rescue him.

The bathroom door slams open, and Stiles sighs.  Peter drags a chair over, feet bare but heavy against the worn carpet, and he blocks Stiles’ view out the window with a scowl.  He looks comfortable in nothing but a pair of sweats and a cotton tee, but his shoulders are rigid.

“You’re not going to do something like that again.”

Stiles’ lips thin.  “I’m not?”

“If you do, I’ll tie you up and drag you back to Beacon Hills myself.” Peter says. 

“I’m not suicidal.”

“I beg to differ.”

“I was better before you found me.”

“Yes, holed up in a hotel on its last legs, wallowing in your guilt every night at some dive bar.” Peter sneers.  “That’s so much  _better_.”

“I’m not  _wallowing_ —“

“You’re  _rank_  with it.” Peter snaps.

“If it’s such a problem, then why don’t you  _leave me_.” Stiles leans forward, teeth bared.

Peter laughs, tinny and unamused.  “And what would you do if I did? Walk back out into the sea until the tide takes you out?”

“Why would it matter?”

“Because I didn’t track you down just for you to off yourself.” Peter says, pushing to his feet, gaze narrowed.

“Why  _did_  you track me down then?” Stiles asks, following Peter with his eyes as the older man moves to the door, watching him slide the chain into place.  “Because shits and giggles certainly don’t appear to be on that list.”

Peter’s jaw works.  “I think this is the most I’ve heard you talk in the last few months. And I’m starting to think I might prefer you  _quiet_.”

Stiles’ nostrils flare. His focus falls back to the window.

There’s a growl.  It’s a low and long, and then Peter is right there, a hand tight in Stiles’ hair to pull his face back around. He grunts, reaching up to grasp at Peter’s wrist with a sneer twisting over his lips.

“I will not have all this time  _wasted_ , Stiles.” Peter says, voice low.

“Funny,” Stiles huffs.  “Here I thought we were both having a grand ol’ time.”

Peter’s smile isn’t kind.  “I should have bit you when I had the chance.  Maybe then you’d know when to shut your  _mouth_.”

“Wasn’t that what you were just complaining about?” Stiles retorts, and there’s a genuine flush on his cheeks, heat churning in his belly, skin prickling as he feels something other than  _guilt_  for once. “That I’ve been too  _quiet_.”

“Obedience, then.” Peter says, and it’s a little more pleasant, his eyes avid over Stiles’ face, and something tightens in Stiles’ abdomen as Peter’s fingers fan out over his scalp.  “Perhaps you’d be a bit more obedient.”

“Right,” Stiles says, eyes locking with Peter’s.  “Sit, stay, roll over—that kind of thing?”

Peter laughs again, but his expression is that of restraint—the same one Stiles had seen on his face time and time again.  “Cute.  Really.”

“Thought you might like that,” Stiles replies.

“Of course you did.”

“Let me go.” Stiles says.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t trust you with yourself.” Peter tells him.

Stiles snorts.  “Ironic.”

“From here on out, I’m not taking my eyes off of you.” Peter says, nails that are too sharp dragging over the top of Stiles’ head.  “Not for a second.”

“That’s bullshit—“

“I have given you  _plenty_  of time to trust me,” Peter tilts his head, regards him for a long moment, and then changes his grip until he’s angling Stiles’ head back, neck bared in a forced submission as Stiles grits his teeth together.  “Now it’s yours turn.”

“To earn  _your_  trust?”

Peter gives him a dry look, and Stiles’ lip twitches up into a sneer as Peter speaks slowly.  “Yes, Stiles. Would you like me to repeat it back to you?”

“Bite me.” Stiles snarls.

The look on Peter’s face twists in delight.  “If only I had.”

He bats Peter’s hand off of his head and stands, towel falling away.  Shoving at his chest, Stiles knows Peter lets him push by, but it’s still satisfying.  It only lasts for a moment before Peter has him by the shirt, pressing him back harshly to the wall by the hotel door.

Stiles winces and then levels a glare at him.  He can feel the heat radiating off of Peter’s body, and for a moment he wants to claw his own skin off just to avoid it.  Peter cants his head, inhales, and frowns.

“That’s new.” Peter says.  “You’ve never smelled like disgust around me before.”

“Get off of me.” Stiles pushes at him, frantic, and Peter presses in closer until their flush—Stiles’ heart skips and then starts pounding, tears burning at his eyes.  “ _Get off of me_.”

“Stiles— _Stiles_ ,” Peter snaps, hand curving behind his neck, thumb mapping out a slow spiral under his ear.  “Calm down.”

“Get off me—“

“ _Calm down_.”

Peter holds him there until Stiles can’t push at him anymore.  Until he’s slack against him, slumped and completely drained.  He pants, still too hot,  _too_   _hot_ , but Peter keeps him up with ease. Feet dragging over the carpet, Stiles puffs against his shoulder as Peter pulls him over to the bed.

His head hits the pillow, and he falls asleep instantly.

When Stiles wakes in the morning, it’s slow. Gradual and easy, like the run rising.  There is a gentle heat beneath his skin, and for once he feels like it’s okay.

His eyes open, and then there’s breath on the back of his neck.  Stiles shudders, and Peter’s arm is there—around his waist, tighter than Stiles would necessarily like.  Pulling away, he freezes as Peter catches him by the back of his shirt.

“Where are you going?”

“Bathroom.” Stiles says, voice tight—because he’s grounded.  Stable.  And it’s starting to scare him again.

“You’re not going to slit your wrists, are you?” Peter taunts.

Stiles jerks away. “Fuck you.”

Climbing out of bed, Stiles is shocked with how instantly cold he is.  He feels Peter’s eyes on him the whole way across the foot of the bed.

“Careful not to slip, pumpkin.” Peter says as he sits up.

An hour later, they’re sliding into the car.  Peter looks over at him, engine rumbling, and sets a hand on Stiles’ knee—just like always, just like nothing had happened.  Gaze flitting from his hand up to his face, Stiles frowns but doesn’t protest.

“Where to?” Peter asks.

Stiles blinks, settling back into his seat, feeling tethered again.  His stomach rolls; he feels lighter and hates himself for a second.  Peter squeezes at his thigh just to see Stiles’ nose wrinkle.

“Surprise me.” Stiles says.  “I want to get lost.”

Peter nods.  “I can do that.” 


End file.
